We Belong
by Asrailefay
Summary: Summary: Years after his contract marriage to Oklahoma, Eric has started to send glamoured humans to Sookie to tell his ex-wife exactly how he feels about the tragic end to their relationship… After the end of Dead Ever After... E/S HEA Short (on hiatus)
1. I Don't Care

_A/N: Hello! So this will only be 3-4 chapters at most, and shouldn't interfere with my Sookie-turning story (Born to Die). In fact, I've actually had writer's block, so I worked on this little ditty instead – and suddenly writer's block gone! Funny how that works. Thanks for reading! And thanks to my betas, MrsKroy and Rachel Olsen-Williams, for putting up with my temperamental ass, editing, and keeping me on track._

* * *

o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

* * *

"Ahhh… my favorite breather," Pam said after I pushed past the bar's scowling bouncer, literally moving him by way of a hearty shove.

I was not quite so pleased to find myself once again inside Fangtasia, a business previously owned by my vampire boyfriend turned ex-bonded – long story – after his maker pensioned him off to the vampire Queen of another state.

 _Ooooooo-klahoma_ – like the songs says – _where the wind comes sweepin' down the plains_.

Fucking Oklahoma.

For the first couple of years, I'd been so angry with him, so sure he could've avoided it – avoided anything – if he had really wanted to put forth the effort. I'd never seen him as a quitter; in fact, I'd always imagined he could conquer the world in one weekend – if he'd ever wanted to. But he never did it, content to keep his little piece of Louisiana.

Because he wasn't enterprising like that – he really wasn't.

Although I'd still let little jealous bubbles pop up within me, telling me that he _wanted_ to go to Oklahoma, wanted to marry a Queen and improve his station – grab the kind of power I'd seen him turn down time and time again. Now I knew that kind of reasoning was laughable, along with being pretty awful of me. Apparently at my worst, I was incapable of being anything but childish – and petty. But not all the time. I'd somehow only ever managed to summon the worst in me when it came to him. My hand was always firmly planted against his chest, metaphorically and sometimes physically, holding him at bay.

Because I'd never gotten over the deeply-rooted belief that he wasn't mine to keep.

I didn't want to be attached, have my happiness dependent on anyone or anything I was destined to lose. My self-defense mechanism protected me against the one person I didn't need to be protecting from – how fucked up is that? And, because sometimes your worst fears become self-fulfilling prophecies, I'd been proven right – he didn't belong to me at all. He wasn't mine to have or to hold. So instead of trying to grab him close, I'd pushed him away, tossing insults and snarky bullshit at his feet. Because I intended to burn every bridge that had ever been built between us.

No one ever accused me of being level-headed.

And with the way my night was already shaping up, nobody probably never would.

"Pam," I bit back, "Your office now… _please_."

I gritted my teeth as I rounded out my order by trying to reposition it as a request.

She raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow at me as she swept her arm out, shepherding me toward the back room. I huffed out my frustrations as I ambled towards Pam's office – _his_ old office – with her hot on my heels. I wasn't mad, not really; I was wildly upset, my shattered heart railing against my ribcage. But being outwardly angry was closer to my wheelhouse, and I'd never processed my feelings for him – still hadn't. I was finding it increasingly more difficult to even refer to him by name.

My ex had become _he_ or _him_.

These things were not progress.

But in fairness, his little song and dance maneuvers sent to me by way of glamoured humans hadn't done anything but thrown me into a tailspin over the past months. It had knocked me back at least ten steps from the five I'd managed to take forwards.

As always, I was losing ground, not gaining it.

Once the door had been opened and shut, Pam glided over to the desk, gingerly sat down, and steepled her fingers together – all business, this one.

"Miss Stackhouse…what brings you here today? I assume it's _Area_ business or you wouldn't be here," she said, and I did not miss her meaning.

For one thing, it meant her office was probably bugged, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I knew who would do such a thing – and why.

I'd turned my back on the supernatural world, and by all accounts – thanks to him, and his second 100 years contracted away for my protections – it had turned its back on me. But that… freedom (?) – I didn't know what else to call it – came with conditions, like the loss of my friendship with Pam, among others. According to Felipe de Castro, the vampire king of several states, including mine, if I decided to straddle the fence between worlds, he would gain indisputable rights to push me over, make me pick a side once and for all. His side, bound to him as his vampire child, for eternity. It was a loophole he lorded over me, bragged to me about, before he finally left me alone. Because he was sure, just oh so sure, that I was addicted to the night, unable to stay away from vampires.

A desperate fangbanger, that's what he likened me to.

Frankly, Felipe figured he was simply biding his time until I slipped up. I knew because he'd told me so, inelegantly and through a fanged smile.

Cocky vampire son of a fucker.

But some of the contract's loopholes worked squarely in _my_ favor – like the one I was exploiting right now – and for that I was grateful.

"Yes, Pam. Of course, it's Area business. I would _never_ be here otherwise," My tone was flat, unaffected; I'd inexplicably managed to quickly steel my previously swirling emotions, "Unfortunately, I have a vampire problem, a contract dispute. As you know per the terms of the agreement, you are duty-bound to correct the issue post-haste. I would've sent my lawyer… but…"

But what?

I hadn't exactly been prepared for this little dog and pony show.

Damn him for putting me in this position.

No. More aptly, damn _me_ for putting me – us – in this position.

 _All_ of us.

"… but… _but_ , in all truth, I don't have the monies to throw around on something that isn't supposed to be my fucking problem!"

I intentionally cursed to punctuate my feigned irritations at having to interact with the supernatural world at all. Plus, it was true – I really didn't have the money for that kind of thing. Sam and I had broken up, almost a year ago, but he still couldn't afford to buy out my share of the bar. It was too awkward to work there – with him – after the break-up, so I'd been mostly unemployed, picking up odd jobs and temp work here and there to supplement my income, and tourniquet the bleed on my ever-dwindling savings account.

"And _what exactly_ is the problem?"

Pam narrowed her eyes at me, as if daring me to say something. Had he told her? Did she know what he had been doing?

What I wanted to say was, "Your maker won't leave me alone; he's taunting and torturing me from a state away, despite the fact he willfully gave up that right."

Even though I wouldn't exactly call not wanting to slaughter an entire state's authoritative hierarchy to avoid an ironclad contract a 'willful act.'

Embittered, that word described me well.

But instead I said, "Someone glamoured a human to pester me, at my home, and she won't leave."

In truth, this bullshit had been going on for a month or so now, but the humans had never tarried before, never demanded me to do anything in return. They'd simply showed up at my house, at all hours of the night, belting out songs right and left at a volume I'd thought a human being incapable of. Sometimes they even brought boom boxes and microphones, just to be sure I couldn't miss even one word of their unwelcome serenades. No, a serenade might've been nice; this was more like tone deaf karaoke fueled by a quiet hate or rage.

Lucky me.

I guess I'd been putting up with it for the past months because on some level I figured I deserved it, that _he_ had every right to be mad at me. Because I was mad at me too.

I hadn't been at first. At first, I'd thrown the weight of the blame squarely on his shoulders, decided _he_ had failed me – failed us. But as time wore on, as I spent each passing day realizing I'd never again see him at night (or _ever again_ ) I was forced to face my own follies – the hand I had taken in the demise of our love story, the tragedy that could be described as an affront against Aphrodite.

If love really existed at all.

Maybe it didn't.

But broken hearts surely did, and apparently _he_ needed me to know I had broken his. Or, at the very least, that he blamed me for emotions he wasn't too keen on experiencing. Because… he didn't like having feelings. Feelings for me. For anything probably, but definitely not for me.

I couldn't begrudge him the sentiment.

I'd felt the exact same way about him.

But, of course, I hadn't gotten drunk – which I assumed had something to do at least with the first of my sing-a-grams, thanks to Niall and his none-too-secret gift of fairy blood to my ex as a thank-you for divorcing me – and laid my heart out there, bared it for my ex to see. Although I guessed to some extent that's exactly what he expected me to do now – to respond.

To lay it all out there.

Like _he_ had.

Because while it wasn't like the men or women came with calling cards or notes, I knew _he_ had sent them. All of them. Including the black-leather clad woman, who I was sure, even in this moment, was knee deep in a songbird performance that had played on repeat for the better part of four hours. She must've been exhausted, and I almost felt bad for her. I'd say it's why I came to see Pam – so she could come glamour the woman to stop for her own sake, and not for mine. But that was an easy lie; I simply wasn't ready to face my own feelings – to respond.

Either way, no matter how I felt, _he_ was lost to me.

Why shatter the final remnants of my broken heart through song?

Why was _he_ doing it?

I _knew_ he sent them; I mean, not at first, but I'd grown to understand he was the puppet master behind this little charade. At first blush, I'd assumed I was simply the target of a practical joke, a teenage prank.

When I heard someone singing _Gives You Hell_ by All-American Rejects while drying out my hair, I didn't think 'gee, I bet my 1000 year old vampire ex-husband is trying to tell me how much he hates me.' No, instead, I slammed my windows shut, and called the local sheriff – human, not vampire. Bon Temps' finest, Bud Dearborn, hadn't had the easiest time pushing the glassy-eyed man into the back of a squad car, but he'd gone all the same – without more than a little fanfare. I'd waved off the police report. The whole scene hadn't been criminal so much as surprising, plus I knew the human had been glamoured – no gain in letting him be punished for what was a petty vampire crime at best.

At the time, I didn't know who was to blame – I only knew it wasn't Bill.

My other vampire ex.

Felipe's assumptions weren't entirely baseless.

Despite Bill's desire to mainstream, blend in with the human world, he'd never really embraced the music of the age. I think he thought it was too loud, and angry. So I imagined All-American Rejects wasn't a band he'd ever heard of – he probably would've assumed it was a name for deportees no longer welcomed or allowed in the United States. I laughed at the thought. That's probably exactly how Bill would've interpreted that band name – if no one told him they made music first.

So I brushed the whole thing off, again as a prank – a vampire prank.

Did vampires prank people?

Maybe.

But I realized it was _his_ little ploy to get my attention, to punish me – or at least lash out at me – much later, when someone else came by singing, ' _I hate everything about you, why do I love you_!?' That had felt pretty pointed, venomous. And no one else had ever loved me enough to hate me _that much_.

Except for _him_.

Sam had been over that time, spending the night – he had come to same conclusion I had, all without my powers of deduction for help. I can safely say our relationship, already on shaky legs to begin with – built on a fuck-up foundation at best – began its downward descent the second I refused to call Felipe. Sam believed I should tell the vampire King that _he_ had broken the contract. He wanted me to get _him_ in trouble. It was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard in my entire life. I didn't place the call; I socked Sam in the jaw instead.

That was how our relationship ended.

The descent had been a sharp decline.

" _Well_?" Pam snapped at me, yanking me out of my internal musings, "Is that what you are asking of me as the Sheriff of Area Five or not?"

"Ummm…" I looked about the tidied office, fumbling with my hands, trying to signal to Pam I had no idea what she had said. But she just tapped her manicured finger on the desk in time with the click of her heel, "Yes…?"

I elongated the word, changing it from a statement to a question at the last minute.

If Pam noticed at all, her countenance betrayed none of it.

"Then let's go, breather," She swept her arm out towards the door as she raised from her seat behind the desk. "Get you back into your boring existence, and out of my hair. Lead the way."

* * *

"SO ARE YOU GOING TO DO ANYTHING OR NOT?"

I yelled over the din of the singing – Fall Out Boy's _I Don't Care_ blaring out loudly, surely at the top of the fangbanger's lungs in the background.

" _I. Don't. Care. Just. What. You. Think... as long as it's about me. The best of us can find happi-ness, in mis-zzzzzery…_ "

" _NOT_!" Pam screamed back, "IT'S NOT REALLY VAMPIRE BUSINESS. SOUNDS MORE LIKE A LOVER'S SPAT. I'D SAY YOU BETTER SEND A MESSAGE BACK IF YOU WANT HER TO GO."

" _Said, I don't care just what you think… As long as it's about me, you said… I don't care just what you think, As long as it's about me, I said… I. Don't. Care…_ "

Of course, Pam would side with her maker, and refuse to help me.

Why the hell would I even fool myself into thinking otherwise? 'Cause I really didn't wanna put my heart on a platter and send it back to _Ooooooo-klahoma_ ( _where the wind comes sweepin' down the plains…_ )

Fucking Oklahoma. Fucking Pam. Fucking _him_.

Fucking me.

"FINE!" I screeched back, more outta irritation than trying to be heard, "FAT LOTTA GOOD YOU ARE!"

Pam smiled a wicked smile before vamping away, leaving me alone with the songbird who seemed hell-bent on busting my eardrums.

I gave up almost instantly, no other tools at my disposal. I wasn't about to call Bud again – what if she just sang from the inside of a cell until her lungs gave out? It seemed like a real possibility. Damn _him_ – preying on my human sensibilities, my moral code.

It was a mistake to respond, and not just because of the threat that Felipe posed. It was… just a mistake. I really didn't want to bare myself raw for him, but I just _couldn't_ let the poor girl suffer any longer. I wasn't going to ignore her travails in an attempt to try to grab at my own comforts.

That just wasn't who I was.

And he knew that, was _counting_ on it – I bet.

"HEY!"

I exclaimed desperately hoping she heard me over the sound of her own voice. I stalked slowly towards the exhausted woman whose song hadn't even halted at its finish, but instead had started again from the beginning. What a crock of bullshit, to do this to someone.

"All you need to be able to stop is a response?"

Crickets. Silence.

Oh, freaking God, glorious and sweet silence.

She nodded furiously, glassy-eyed but grateful for the reprieve – teetering on uneasy and tired legs. She glared at me, waiting for a command I truly had no power to give.

I placed my hands on her shoulders to steady her, and she offered me the smallest smile she could muster.

"You'll go away if I say something back, right? What if it's a song? Can you accept a song title?"

She bobbed her head 'yes', and she didn't stop agreeing to my question – damn this glamour was strong. Her head kept moving back and forth with an increasing force that had me worried and acting fast.

Somewhat fast.

"Alright… Alright…"

I scrambled quickly, a lightbulb pinging on immediately. Its light flooded my head along with the perfect lyrics – the ones I sincerely hoped he'd take at face value, understand the feelings it captured. I hadn't wanted to deal with this – deal with _him_ – but it seemed I had no choice in the matter. I never did, the crux of our problems in my biased opinion.

"I want you to send back…" I leaned in and whispered the song's title and band into her ear, hoping that this would be the end of it – once and for all.

* * *

 _A/N: Characters belong to Charlaine Harris. Lyrics belong to their respective owners,_ Oklahoma _to Rodgers and Hammerstein and_ I Don't Care _to Fall Out Boy. Next chapter? We'll go join Eric over in Ooooooo-klahoma, and find out his motivations and reactions!_


	2. I Miss You

_A/N: So I never intended to table this story – really I didn't – but then it became so popular overnight that I was completely overwhelmed. I've written multi-chapter stories that didn't garner the kind of initial following this_ one _chapter did. That scared me; I'm not too proud to admit it. So I agonized over my song choice and switched it constantly as I tried to write. Funnily enough, I recently decided to use the one I had in mind in the first place._

 _Life's little more than a crazy hoot sometimes, I swear._

* * *

o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

* * *

"Anything else, _Freyda_?"

I growled indignantly, blatantly refusing to address her by her royal title, not caring one fucking bit that my displeasure was on full display.

The spectacle taking place in her throne room, no less.

"Since you asked? Yes, quit sulking around here like the walking dead," she entreated teasingly, chuckling at her own turn of phrase – her soprano nasally voice grating on more than just my ears, "It's not as if you're one of Oklahoma's prisoners."

I raised a single brow.

 _Oh really?_!

My subtle, yet incredulous expression screamed silently.

"Oh, right… Marital contract… blah blah blah," she inspected her nails casually, pretending she was not in fact afraid to meet my harsh stare, "I get it – you feel stir-crazy…" I crossed my arms disapprovingly at her trivializing description of our current arrangement, and her eyes flicked to mine – finding fire, "Fine, trapped! Caged!" she amended, exasperation rife in her tone, "But at least… said cage is _gilded_."

Freyda always tried to do this, to defuse my anger by humorous means.

Not once had her efforts been anything but in vain.

Out of touch little bitch.

"You and I both know that I am not required to _submit to the promisor's demands or whims_ ," I reminded her, reciting a clause in the aforementioned legally-binding document almost verbatim – the one fucking favor Appius had done for me in this whole mess, "Therefore, I will continue to walk around here _like the walking dead_ ," I mocked deridingly, "if I fucking please."

"Ugh!" Freyda exclaimed, throwing her hands animatedly into the air as she jumped from her throne to her feet – how she had survived one hundred years acting like such a whiny baby vamp I would never know, "Why must you make every interaction between us so difficult?! We could be _so good_ together. What is your fucking problem?!"

I pursed my lips almost involuntarily – refusing to let my ex-wife's name escape in retort – to remind my _contracted_ wife that my _chosen_ mate was the only being I wanted to be _good together_ with.

I had to let that particular longing go, for _her_ safety as much as my own.

Someday, but not _today_ – I told myself.

"Holy fucking hell! You're not still pining for Backwater Barbie, are you?!" Freyda yelled, jealousy rippling off of her scrawny form in waves, "C'mon, Eric! That pathetic human doesn't want you! She _proved_ that when she refused to follow you here."

I stifled the urge to flinch as my metaphorical jailor regaled my failed attempt to bring my then-wife with me to my indentured life by offering to keep her as my mistress.

Why the fuck had I expected that conversation to go any way but badly?

 _Because you had hoped she would ignore the obvious insult_ – my mind chided me mercilessly.

I had wanted my cake and to eat it too – as _she_ would have said. _She_ may have even said it. I could not exactly recall our penultimate interactions.

Despite my nearly eidetic memory, our last moments together had buried themselves, squirreling deeply and uneasily into the catacombs of my mind. Far below the memories of my human days, and always just outside of my reach. I wanted to remember _those_ times, to embrace that pain – to let it cleanse me of the feelings that had taken root. But instead they carried on, any power I had once had to banish them missing in action.

I imagined _she_ had kept it, possibly along with my very soul, with her in Louisiana.

Leaving me forever aching, and empty.

"Shut the fuck up, Freyda."

I bit back coolly as I rolled my eyes at her obvious envious irritation, my icy tone and dismissive demeanor completely cloaking the resurfacing melancholy once again sweeping through me.

" _You,"_ I continued, my finger pointing squarely in her direction, "…appear to be far more obsessed with _that_ human than I am…"

Untrue.

 _So_ fucking untrue.

"Because Backwater Barbie, as you have so aptly named her, is the farthest thing from my mind."

More lies spilled from like honey my smirking lips, as Freyda parted her own to speak.

I cut off her attempt without measure or regard, verbally delivering what I hoped would be akin to a fatal blow.

"I simply do not give two shits about you, my dear _Queen_ ," I mocked snidely, punctuating my expression with an exaggerated bow, "You are only a contract to me, the promisor of a signed parchment I am bound to serve. _Nothing. More_. We will never be _good together_ because we will never _be_ together."

I would surely pay for embarrassing her in her throne room.

But Freyda's gaping, pride-wounded, expression made it worth it – so fucking worth it.

* * *

 _Knock. Knock._

A gentle, rhythmic rapping against my chamber door pulled my mind back into the present.

"Come in."

I growled irritated, shaking off the stupor of downtime as I rose from my seated position on the edge of my California King bed to address whoever dared to interrupt my private musings.

My domicile, the Consort Room, was my only source of respite from the contract my maker Appius had locked me into – the only place I could be myself, and alone. I rarely allowed guests – encroachers, intruders – as Freyda well knew. But it never stopped her from attempting to breach the barrier between myself and her world.

 _Fucking Oklahoma_.

Despite our tumultuous exchange earlier in the night, I completely expected her to be the supplicant on the other side of the door.

I could not have been _more_ wrong in my assumptions.

Without a word, I grabbed the familiar donor's arm, curling my palm around her elbow, and pulled her towards me, slamming the door behind her with a satisfying _bang_. The guards would surely report to Freyda my eagerness to see this buxom brunette – the woman, whose name I had never bothered to learn, who had graced my bed chambers repeatedly over the course of the last couple of weeks. Little did my contracted wife know, this little song-bird carried a message, one I was desperate to hear – one I had essentially risked her life for. Not that _she_ would have ever let this young woman suffer needlessly.

Because if nothing else, my ex-wife was utterly predictable when it came protecting _others_ – always one to run headfirst, eyes closed into a fight – unless, of course, that _other being_ happened to be me.

I had always been the exception to her rules.

Just as _she_ had aggravatingly been the exception to mine.

"Well?!"

I barked at the donor as I brusquely pushed her away from me – hard enough to encourage distance, but gently enough not to knock her on her ass – and attempted to smooth down my buttoned-up shirt.

It _had_ been crisp, freshly pressed by one of Freyda's human staff, but now fine-lined wrinkles littered the delicate cloth.

Seriously, I could not catch a fucking break here.

"What. Did. She. Say?"

I gritted out while removing the offending article, rolling my eyes when the donor's turned to saucers – her glassy-eyed gaze affixed to the deep v under my abs that symmetrically framed my _happy trail_.

Glamoured or not, it was safe to say she was more than distracted right now.

Perhaps I should have waited to get undressed.

"Uhh…"

As scintillating as this conversation was shaping up to be, I decided to move things along, vamping to my closet space and shrugging on a modest olive green, V-necked tee.

 _Much. Better._

I thought to myself as the donor's eager expression fell to one of abject disappointment.

"You were _saying_."

I prodded her again, the growl in my tone unmistakable but low, before sitting down on the edge of my California King, patting the comforter beside me to indicate she should do the same.

The woman sat down ungracefully on the corner of the bed, faltering not once but twice before settling – hands twining together and wringing distractedly.

Apparently, I made this otherwise confident creature _incredibly_ nervous.

"Blink182'sIMissYou."

She blurted out quickly – both her eyes and head averted towards the carpeted floor – so that her obviated response was muddled into a single word.

But I caught the bullshit pretense of a missive all the same.

 _Fucking vampire hearing._

I hooked my u-curled finger under her chin, bidding her not quite so gently to look me squarely in the face – demanding she once again submit to my glamour.

 _What was her name again – Candy? Cinnamon?_

I honestly had no fucking clue – not that it mattered.

As shimmering greens met my blazing blues, I captured her in my thrall, replacing her will with my own in nanoseconds – donors, especially fangbangers, were often the most impressionable, the easiest to mentally bend and mold.

It was why I had chosen her to deliver my most recent singing telegram to my ex-wife in the first place.

Well _that_ coupled with the fact that she _really_ could sing beautifully.

" _Try_. _Again_."

I gritted out roughly, clasping her jaw tightly instead of releasing it, using every ounce of restraint within me to stifle the urge to crush the flimsy bone that allowed her flapping mouth to spew such lies.

 _She_ would never admit to missing me.

In fact, I was almost certain _she_ would rather suffer needlessly – as _she_ had previously chosen to do time and time again – than confess to having even a modicum of affection for me.

 _Especially_ after everything that had recently transpired between us.

"I'm not l-lying to you, M-master."

The now terrified donor sputtered out, her usually melodic voice quavering as she physically quaked with thinly stifled fear – her eyes widening into saucers when I narrowed my gaze to vicious slits in reaction to her unwarranted, and unwanted, subservient endearment.

I was not her _fucking_ master – or anyone else's for that matter.

In fact, in the year since my servitude began in Oklahoma, I had fulfilled my marital – _contractual_ – obligations to Freyda as her Royal Consort, but otherwise I had been inexplicably faithful to my ex-wife.

To the fucking capricious woman, who was probably bedding her fucking shifter, ex-boss turned business partner, at this very moment – or letting him hold her while she slept. Truthfully, I was not sure which prospect I hated more. _Either_ outcome indicated the obvious; that she had moved on, and past me – past _us_ and what we had shared.

Hence my utter disbelief – no, complete fucking incredulousness – that _she_ had responded to my singing entreaty with a song titled "I Miss You."

 _That_ was the biggest pile of bullshit lie anyone had ever tried to feed me.

"No, I agree that you are not _intentionally_ trying to deceive me."

I conceded exasperatingly, releasing my tense hold on – _was it Citrus? Maybe Chamomile?_ – Whoever's fucking jaw as I sprung from a seated position deftly to my feet and crossed the room in a meager number of strides.

 _Whoever_ breathed out a heavy sigh of relief, her previously glistening eyes clouding once again with lust after she lifted her head from its downed position and licked her lips salaciously as she bobbed her head from side to side to follow my pacing form.

 _Fucking fangbanger_.

She looked like a goddamned tennis ball.

 _Whoever_ was also about as useless as one since I wasn't a fucking golden retriever. It was plain to me that she had been compromised. Intercepted and repurposed – hopefully before ever reaching her intended target. Only my ex-wife could ferret out another vampire's glamour for sure, but the donor was _obviously_ sent back to me to deliver a message – one I imagined was meant to be vexing.

It screamed at me unrelentingly that someone _knew_ I had been communicating with a woman I had sworn, by way of contract and deadly repercussions, to leave well enough alone.

For her sake as much as mine.

It was an admission as much as it was a warning, and a sign.

 _Obviously, it_ had _to be a missive from Pam, my aggravating but loyal child._

Any other vampire would have jumped at the opportunity to use her as leverage against me.

Or, at the very least, let her sing herself to death.

As the reality of the situation slammed into me with an almost blinding force, rage began to churn and bubble within me.

I had been such a fucking idiot, had risked our lives – and for what?!

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

I roared loudly, causing not only the walls, but the woman my shouting was aimed at, to tremble uncontrollably in response to the blaring sound's reverberations.

She scuttled from the room without a spoken protest or even a quiet whimper.

Fingers curled into claws, I began to rip apart the garish possessions that decorated my space, hurling – quite literally – my anger in all directions. Every launched item groaned or creaked its displeasure before it struck the textured wall with a rewarding _BOOM_. I blatantly ignored the increasing and persistent knocks at the door, continuing to rampage as I saw fit.

I refused to let anyone or anything deter me from my purpose.

Plus, whoever it was could not enter without my permission.

Composing myself several minutes later, I sat down in my leather Queen Anne chair and surveyed the grisly scene. It looked how my world had felt since I had met my ex-wife – like it had been hit by a thundering cyclone – as though my innermost conflicts had been given corporeal life. Only to be murdered mercilessly and without impunity.

 _She_ had always had a knack for turning everything upside down.

I stifled the urge to groan.

My mind always did that, took my thoughts back to _her_ , to us. I could not continue to live this way, to amble about like the _walking dead_. Not for the next two hundred years, and certainly not for the rest of eternity. I needed to get past this, past _her_ – once and for all. Since I had been denied my chance at closure – _Thank you,_ _fucking Pam_ – I would have to try something else instead.

 _Ughhhh…_

This time, I allowed the groan to pass my lips.

Because I knew exactly what depraved and awful thing I was going to have to do.

Resignedly, I stalked my way over to the door and ripped it open, much to the shock of the individual who _still_ had been knocking away on the other side.

"Freyda…"

I greeted my contracted wife through gritted teeth, tamping down every urge I had to slap the smile off her smirking face.

 _Play nice, Northman – do the rebound thing and treat her like your wife._

"Cordelia sure left in a hurry," oh, _that_ was the donor's name, "Shall I… take her place in your bedchamber for the evening, my dear _Husband_?"

I had to give it to her.

If nothing else, Freyda was the epitome of tenacious, and stubborn as a mule.

 _Just like a certain someone else I had been married to._

"My dear _Queen_ , you are so repellant to me that I would not even considering fucking you with another man's dick."

As she donned a wounded expression, I slammed the door in her crestfallen face.

I cannot believe I even _considered_ trying to make it work with that bitch.

* * *

o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

* * *

 _We can live like Jack and Sally if we waaaant…_

"Who are Jack and Sally?"

I inquired of Pam on our scheduled call, after getting other business out of the way.

Weeks after throwing the donor out of my room, despite my unwavering disbelief that my ex-wife had admitted to missing me via song, I had listened to Blink-182's "I Miss You" all the same.

Since then, for twelve agonizing nights, the tune had been stuck in my head.

 _And in the night we'll wish this never ennnnndds… We'll wish this never ennnnndds…_

It had been annoying as fuck.

"What _the fuck_ are you talking about, Eric?"

Pam laughed in response, her speakered voice tinny and grating on my already-lit nerves.

" _That_ song makes mention of a Jack and Sally. I would like to know who they are."

I treaded lightly, intentionally avoiding discussion of my ex-wife or the sing-a-grams I had been sending to her by way of a glamoured donor.

 _This. Sick. Strange. Darkness… comes creeping onnnn so haunting every tiiiiimme…_

"You've gotta give me more here."

Pam dead-panned.

 _I miss yooooou, I miss yooooou…_

"I. Miss. You."

"Oooo-kay… What the fuck's happening right now? Tell me you didn't piss off some witches again."

 _OF COURSE_ , Pam would choose to remind me of that event in particular, to exhume a memory I had been trying desperately to keep buried.

 _Will you come home and stop the pain tonight? Stop this pain tonight…_

"No, I did not piss off anymore fucking witches."

I bit out, my fangs dropping in anger as my ex-wife's smiling tanned face flashed into my mind.

The conversation rabbit-holed from there.

In the end, I discovered that Pam had not intercepted my glamoured donor, nor returned her with a song title in hand – despite my ex-wife's explicit request she do that very thing.

Sookie had taken care of the situation herself.

She _had_ admitted she missed me.

So this was what hope felt like.

 _Don't waaaaaste your time on me. You're alreaaaaady the voice… Inside. My. Head._

The truth floored me, rendered me speechless.

But what was almost more disturbing to me was that I still _really_ wanted to know who the fuck Jack and Sally were.

I wanted to know how they lived, so I could imagine that we really _could_ live like them too.

 _I miss you… I miss you…_

* * *

 _A/N: On hiatus still? Yes. No. Maybe? Let's just say, I truly hope not. Fingers crossed. :)_


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